


the distance

by you_aint_my_dad



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: 10-Codes. 10-Codes Everywhere, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, F/M, I Swear My Tags Were In A Different Order When I Wrote Them, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, No Nuclear Ending - The Collapse Refers To Something Else, No Smut, Not Beta Read, Other, Police Talk, Redemption AU, Religious Cults, Slow Burn, like slow slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29326515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_aint_my_dad/pseuds/you_aint_my_dad
Summary: and John — John, who's well-maintained rage, he remembers, always sat too thinly under the surface; who had those half-split moments of pure unrepressed violence, that hateful look of bared teeth and creasing musculature, which even he, so-called master sycophant, could never hold back in the moment.which, he decides, was a lot funnier at eight and ten, as similarly sized equals, and a lot more terrifying at thirty-something, tied at the wrists, drugged and half-drowned.The Deputy knows more about the Baptist than either of them are willing to admit. The same can be said in reverse.Maybe it won't be enough to save Hope County, won't be enough to put Joseph Seed in cuffs, to stop the Reaping.But maybe it might be enough - just enough - to shoot a shot at redemption..(or, a long time ago in a terrible evangelical upper-middle-class community far, far away, there was a time where John Seed was John Duncan, and The Junior Deputy was The New Boy From Outstate,and one might've even called them friends.)
Relationships: Male Deputy | Judge & Faith Seed, Male Deputy | Judge & John Seed
Kudos: 5





	the distance

**Author's Note:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** No warnings per se for this chapter, aside from a little bit of bad language here and there.
> 
>   
> This story starts off WAAY before the game canonically does, and won't follow along with FC5's original progression overmuch. Most things say the same, some very large things are very different. The planned Part Two will likely feature most of the usual Eden's Gate shenanigans, but for now, expect a lot of post-Reaping normality.
> 
> Or, as normal as Hope County can be. 
> 
> Like it says in the tags, the main character is asexual. This means that, while his relationship with John, Faith and a couple of other characters will be explored, it won't contain any scenes of a sexual nature or smut. Hell, no romance or the like will be around for a while anyway. The Slow Burn be SLOOOOW.
> 
> Expect some errors, here and there. This isn't beta read and I write like an addled lunatic with a spelling impediment. 
> 
> Aside from the above, hope you all enjoy - and thank you in advance for reading!

####  **PART ONE**

##  **CHAPTER ONE**

## ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

He's at a stoplight, thumping the base of his palms against the steering wheel and singing along to KISS's _Crazy Crazy Nights_ when the sheriff comes over dispatch with a report about suspected automatic gunfire at Fall End's Golden Valley Gas Station.

Or, from the owner, who reported it. The incident itself came from somewhere north. A few years ago, the man says, they'd write it down as hunting noise.

They don't do that these days.

With Project at Eden's Gate in Hope County, hell no.

In his haste to take the call, Junior Deputy Justin-Christophe Vanderhout of the Hope County Sheriff's Department accidentally smashes all four knuckles into the dashboard.

"Patrol-Two will seventy-six to that call over at the gas station, dispatch, over."

He could make that. He could make that, easy. The deputy was none too far away, up on his still-as-of-yet-provisional beat in the Whitetails. With stinging fingers, JCVD turned down the stereo by at least two-thirds and listened to Sheriff Whitehorse sigh over the static.

" _You should rendezvous with Hudson_ ," the man replied. " _She'll be off her lunch in twenty, over_."

"What, in Falls End?" Hudson liked to eat at the bar, he knew. Most folks did. If they didn't eat in the office, the bar was the next best place.

The deputy watched the light flick to green and stepped on it.

Place like this, he'd cruise at two or three miles an hour under the speed limit, but he stopped shy of ten with the sheriff on the radio. Man always seemed to know when they were shaving close to the unspoken 'too fast for the old man' limit — a fucking mind reader, JCVD would swear.

"I know it's only up the road, but I'ma be there and gone again by the time she's finished. S'probably just folks making a ruckus, over."

They weren't supposed to go it alone, of course. Nobody liked to talk about the shiny, newer name on the memorial board, but neither did anyone like to operate solo, either. Unfortunately, they were thin on the ground this shift and had been since Monday.

Deputy Vanderhout was technically supposed to ride with Deputy Pratt, since the newer of the two was a little greener on the whole small town interaction department on top of being an out-of-state cop, but alas it was not to be. Dear ol' Staci was off with a hairline fracture after his car hit an elk with a probable death wish. It left JCVD to play the rogue element.

Not that he liked it. Being a solo badge might not be an issue in sleepy town Montana, but he wasn't used to it. Pratt was an asshole but he was an asshole you could at least have a conversation with, and when alone, his thoughts had a tendency to take over.

At least he had his music. That was the one upside to Pratt not being around. No incessant bitching.

" _Look_ ," The Sheriff began. " _You're dynamite, Rookie, but you know how I feel about sending my people out alone, over_."

"Yessir."

" _Now, I'm not saying this is anything to do with the Peggies, I ain't, but given how last time turned out_..."

He knows what the Sheriff is alluding to. The junior deputy had been in Hope County for barely three days and he'd already had a run-in with the Project at Eden's Gate. An illegal firearms incident. Some reeking self-important asshole in whites and cameos with shitty face tattoos who thought it a good idea to carry a Class 3 AR-C with a filed off serial number. And get uppity about it, too.

Bad move, when facing the likes of JCVD. He might've been new but he sure as hell wasn't inexperienced. If that Peggie didn't know who Junior Deputy Vanderhout was before, they certainly did afterwards.

Nothing like matching firepower quid pro quo with an AR-CL and a _oh yeah well mine's longer!_

JCVD didn't fire his piece that day, didn't need nor want to - he was a new officer in a new town and that wasn't the sort of impression he wanted to make, city cop and all - but damn was getting eyeballed by some fool armed with a military-grade rifle a far cry from the whole 'quiet countryside experience' he'd been promised during his transfer.

Georgia State Patrol was one thing, but four days as of this morning and the fact that he'd had to debate discharging his patrol rifle on a local already was... Well. Fuck. _No_.

'Cause it wasn't just that one Peggie, no sir. Most people packed heavy in Hope County. Home of the free, land of the crazy. They built bunkers and lived off the land and got pissy when you took offence to their open carried semi-automatic assault rifles. Almost all of the locals here came one for two in terms of bonkers, but lunacy aside, they were simple folk here. They wanted their peace and quiet as much as they wanted their guns.

Unless you were Charlemagne Boshaw, of course, then along with his idiot cousin it was all the guns and none much of the quiet.

"Hang on now, what you mean?" J.C. asked, coy, eyes on the road and ears straining to catch the chorus of _Bat Out of Hell_. This wasn't normally his vibe, but his normal playlists were for Atlanta. Here any sort of drum'n'bass or EDM made him jumpy, agitated. He started mouthing the words, pausing to add. "Look, I'll keep watch on my six, have a word with the proprietor and wait for Hudson to rendezvous, over."

" _First sign of trouble and you radio back, over_." The sheriff pressed, and it was the deputy's turn to sigh.

There was really no use in arguing — his new boss had a very good point, and JCVD knew when to play level. His career had seen enough excitement for several lifetimes and, truth be told, he was getting too old for any more B-action movie crap. The incident two days ago notwithstanding.

"Uh-huh, ten-four. First sign." It was as good as a promise Whitehorse was gonna get without J.C. asking if he wanted to pinky promise over the radio, which he might've if he was feeling cheeky and wasn't caught up on making a tricky left turn. It was sharper there than one would otherwise expect. There were always half a dozen of these treacherous turns, bumps and potholes. They took a bit of effort to learn.

More interesting than Post 48's smooth city asphalt, though. Sir, yes sir.

Speaking of.

"N'tell Hudson she owes me one of them 'Better Than Your Shitty City Nonsense Burgers' she kept on goin' on 'bout." The junior deputy added, as an afterthought. "M'fuckin' starving, over."

" _Ten-four._ _I'll let the good woman know_. _Keep us posted. Oh, and son?"_

"Send it."

" _Turn that god damn stereo down for heaven's sake_."

JCVD stifled the urge to roll his eyes, half convinced the man would somehow sense that, too. 

"Okay, sheriff. Patrol-Two out."

It was a murderously hot May. The black plastic of his radio's clasp burned his hand as he shoved it back into place, and JCVD inched the window down a little more to get some air. If all went to plan he'd take this call in and be on his lunch break by two. Not a bad deal.

He'd take the road south, across the bridges and past Gardenview. Nice drive, that. Much of the Whitetails and the wider Holland Valley were. He turned up the stereo just as the five-minute mark hit, and then, just because he could, he flicked on his code-threes, stepping on it all the way.

If he was quick about it, maybe he'd even get that burger.

#### ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

#### ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The owner of the gas station was a middle-aged lady who worked the counter with her ex-husband. They were good people and were the first Hope County residents that the junior deputy had actually met, on account on his intimidate tasks upon arrival being to refill his car — and himself — before doing anything else.

Their son, Daniel, was a SAR alongside the Loresca's two boys, Jay and Mike. Since then, he'd seen Daniel and Jay around, but Mike was a year or so younger and a squirrelly little man who had joined up with Eden's Gate awhile back. Daniel and Jay had been the one to come to their aid during Pratt's whole hit and run incident, and from what he could tell, J.C. had gotten along fine with 'em since. Nice enough to drink with.

JCVD was nearly there when he saw something new along the road. Something rectangular and dark, looked like a sign. He squinted against the sun and leaned over, pushing on the breaks.

TOGETHER WE WILL RETURN TO THE GARDEN  
JOIN THE PROJECT TODAY

White-on-black, in stencilled lettering, it proclaimed as such, obnoxiously. The deputy's frown melted into a scowl and he stomped on the acceleration with more force than strictly required.

At least he wasn't far off now. As he drove, listening to his stereo cycle back to the beginning of the playlist, he wondered if the Peggies had the right to go sticking up great big signs beside the roads. Didn't folks need permission for that?

Maybe they already had it. He'd heard that they owned a lot of property around here and were trying to buy up more — the gas station included. Heard a lot of other things, too, but he tried to keep an open mind as to what was true and what was merely sensationalised rumour. Safer that way.

The sheriff, at least, had put together a document for him to read about the Project, to catch him up to so-called speed. It was a heck of a thoughtful gesture, but the document was currently lost somewhere on his kitchen table and he hadn't got around to actually reading it yet. Probably trapped under that box of HDMI and AUX cords, now that he thought about it.

JCVD was still very much in the middle of unpacking. He'd get round to it... Once he finally put his TV together, maybe.

And rearranged his living room to his liking. Still needed to do that. Needed a new coffee table. 

Oh, and then there was the actual sofa he needed to assemble. Grey-green polyester fake leather, some IKEA bullshit he'd bought nearly ten years ago that he didn't have instructions for anymore. Jesus Christ.

He turned, taking it gently, half-aware of a few crumbling potholes at the eastern entrance. His 2008 Darralas was nearly ten years old and there certainly wasn't enough in the department budget for a replacement body kit. Peering at the squat wooden building, the junior deputy noticed uneasily that the lights were off and that the fuelling area was abandoned.

Okay that was... Strange. He'd half expected to see Mrs. Archard out and about, maybe even her ex-husband or Daniel. He elected to park out of the way in the two designated spots, tires crunching against rocky gravelled dirt and sand.

JCVD unplugged his phone, silencing the stereo and closing the music app with a flick of the finger. He clambered out of his cruiser with his handgun holstered, sunglasses too-low on the bridge of his nose and pulling Whitehorse's old stetson over his scruffed up bed-hair, chewing that God awful spearmint gum Pratt had left in the glovebox to fester.

He needed to get that out of there, he thought, as he approached the building. Too hot for that shit to be left unattended — he sure as hell did not want to be the one scraping it out of the plastic. Beyond, the scrappy rise of shrub grass and uneven rocks looked eerily still. There was no noise aside from the chirping of birds, the low rumble of crickets and the hum of the nearby vending machine. No one on the road. The place smelled overwhelmingly of gasoline and he sneezed on reflex.

Washroom was clear. JCVD wasn't expecting it to not be, given how the door was propped open, but he checked anyway. The door to the main building, however, wasn't and it ding-donged as he shoved it open.

The deputy squinted into the gloom. No one around in here, either.

Huh.

"Hope County Sheriff's Department," he called, deliberately too-loud, walking over to the counter and leaning across it to search the rest of the room. No go. "Heeell-ooo? Mrs. Archard?"

On instinct, the tips of his fingers brushed against the backside of his sidearm. Prepared but not committing, not yet. The monitor on the counter showed no movement when the deputy leaned over to twist it in his direction. He shoved it back into place.

Odd. Especially since the door was left unlocked. His gaze racked over the posters advertising their local 2004 Sharpshooting champion, McHalen Scotch, Ice Cold Tana Cola and Titian Force Ammunition and wondered where on Earth she could've got off to. A sign in the top right corner proclaimed that any shoplifters would be _beaten, trampled and stomped on!_ Any survivors from there would be prosecuted.

Sounded about right. JCVD was about to turn away from the counter and reach up for his radio, intending to walk on 'round back to see if Mrs. Archard was back in the trailer when he heard something thump against the back wall.

His thumb, index and middle finger actually pressed into the plastic of his grip, too-fast for him to be strictly comfortable. The deputy watched wearily as a dark shape came baring into the building from the blue back door.

A figure came through, and he breathed in, sharp.

"Woah, hang on there. Easy." JCVD told them, tone void of any real urgency, even though inwardly he felt about as ease as a pig on ice. The feeling let up, just a little, when his eyes adjusted and he recognised the newcomer. Enough for his hand to come away completely, though his fingers still flexed, agitated.

Something didn't feel right.

At the sight of him, Mrs. Archard raised her eyebrows over the rims of her glasses and pressed both open palms to her chest.

"Oh God!" She hollered, hurried in, shutting the door behind her. "I heard a car come up against the building and thought-"

Thought _what?_ The deputy asked himself, uneasily. "Well, I'm sorry to have gone n' given you a fright, ma'am. You called?"

Mrs. Archard looked like she hit over fifty two decades ago; half-grey and leather-skinned, but still able to walk straight and upright. She wore golden frames with a prescription so thick JCVD wondered if it was bulletproof. Despite the strength of her specs, however, she squinted at the deputy as she walked to the other side of the counter.

"Thought you weren't coming." She said in the way of reply. "Your... Jayce or something, right?"

"Justin-Christophe, Vanderhout. Everybody calls me J.C." He shook his head, purposefully dropping the 'VD' from the 'JC' and going full-name. Explaining the whole shebang regarding his old moniker was too long of a thing to be done here and now. Besides, he's not sure if Mrs. Archard even knew who Jean-Claude Van Damme was. Sheriff Whitehorse certainly hadn't. Hurk Jr. so far had been the only one to find it amusing. "M'here. You gone filed in a report?"

"They're shooting up in the hillside." She pointed eastward in explanation. "I thought it north, but my boy said it's probably east. It's them damn Peggies I'm telling you."

"Yeah?" JCVD believed her. He took out his notepad, slipped his pen from out inside the rings and began taking notes. Date, time, name, location. The pen he was using was running out of ink.

"It just worried me, is all. I got this call this morning from that lawyer of theirs, see? Says he's going to drop by to 'negotiate' again - well, like hell am I negotiating anything with the likes of him, I told him once and I told him a million times and I'll do so a million more, I ain't selling the land. I can't. Wouldn't to the likes of them, even if I could."

"He said he'd drop by?" The deputy noted, tapping the end of his biro against the paper. He hadn't met the Project's so-called lawyer and resident baptist yet, and from what he'd been able to determine, it was for the best. "He say when?"

"No, had it all cryptic like. He likes to do that."

"Right. Then you heard the shooting at one-twenty-three, when you made the call." The woman nodded at him. "What y'all hear, exactly?"

"I know what bad news sounds like, Deputy, and it sounds like a dozen rifles spitting out eight hundred or so rounds per minute." Her hands, washboard rough, folded over one another. "It sounds like a goddamn war zone and with how angry Mr. Seed has been getting these last few days, well..."

The deputy nodded. If nothing else, he could bag 'em on disturbing the peace. He looked around.

"You not open?"

"Sure I am, but... Figured when they started shooting that they'd be here with bad intentions, so I was getting ready to go into town."

Maybe not a bad idea if she was here alone. JCVD made an off-hand note in his cramped capitalised-on-habit handwriting and nodded. "You're worried about the cul-.. the Project having... bad intentions."

"You ain't been here very long, sir, but you tell me you don't look at that cult and see anything but bad intentions." She scowled through the grimed up window and shook her head. "I've been working this here business for nearly twenty years, and I've spent about half of that time watching that little bastard buy up property like it's the hot item on sale. You haven't heard about him? He's goddamn ruthless, talks all sweet to your face and then tricks you into signing God-awful deals not worth the paper they're written on - and that's all voluntary. Can't tell you how many folks I've seen him force to sell. It's downright criminal."

He nodded. "You ban 'em from the property?"

She gave him a thin smile, eyes crinkling in amusement. Not real mirth. Hers was darker, too knowing. "Like I'd try. Knowing that slippery bastard, he'd sue me for religious discrimination or whatever, and it doesn't stop him from talking to me out in the open. Fucker is relentless."

JCVD smiled back at her, as he folded his notebook back and slapped it against his damp palm. "Tell you what, I'll stick around and wait for my colleague and then send 'em after your rouge shooters. I got a forty-five-minute lunch break coming up on the hour. If they don't show up then, call us if they give you any trouble."

It wasn't much, but it was really all he could do unless they whet and implicated themselves. From the sounds of it, he might not be able to do even that.

Meanwhile, talking had made him parched, and he glanced over to the refrigerator that held all the single bottles of cold drinks.

"Since your technically open, do you mind if I..?"

She saw him looking and gave the nod of assent. JCVD stuffed his notebook into his jeans pocket and, while only intending to grab a drink, found himself straying too close to the candy aisle for good measure. Before he knew it, he was staring down the rows of single bar chocolates and brightly coloured packets.

Ignoring the fact that he'd promised his physician and his older brother that he'd start on a diet, he grabbed a packet of Swedish Fish and one of those king-sized 3 Musketeers bars, but he found himself quickly hesitating when he automatically reached for the Diet Pepsi. The local favourite was supposed to be that Tana Cola but — yeesh, he didn't care to fit in _that_ well.

It was as his fingers were lingering above the bottle, forearm hairs prickling at the fridge cold and agonising over his daily sugar intake, when he heard the sound of a truck engine outside. Two of them, soon thereafter. 

"Oh hell no, that bastard-" Mrs. Archard hissed, and she started rounding the counter towards the front door. Before he could tell her to stop, she was outside and shouting at them.

JCVD sighed to himself, grasped to the far right and selected a bottle of water instead. The grand total came to barely three dollars with tax, but he only had a five, three tens and two twenties in his wallet. Keeping a half-eye on the developing crowd outside, all too aware that this likely wasn't just a nice group of paying customers as he'd hoped - what with the vague glow of two off-white trucks and the faint, warbling tones of what he'd come to know as Peggie hymnals coming from their stereos - he slapped the five-dollar note on the counter, leaving the water and his Swedish Fish behind.

The candy bar came with. By the time he was out the door himself, it was half-unwrapped and clenched between his incisors.

It wasn't the smartest thing. When he finally shouldered his way outside, hand on his holster, he did so only to smack face to face with the Ghost of Atlanta Past.

Before he can give his resort to the agitated Mrs. Archard, John Fucking Duncan spun around on a pair of heeled shoes he wouldn't've been caught dead in ten years ago, clocked the deputy in his too-green getup, and stopped dead in his tracks.

JCVD, he ain't so smooth. The feeling of impact stunned him, knocked him aside. He clenched his jaw, sliced off a chunk of nougat and damn well nearly choked on it.

Well, shit. He thought, as he coughed it back, chewed the mouthful it into safer, smaller bits and swallowed it properly.

Little Johnny Boy went and grew himself a beard.

And it's with that observation, stood out in the baking sun with Country-Knockoff John Duncan and a trio of badly-washed Eden's Gate members, that realization hits. Fancy City Lawyer. The blue-eyed little brother. The psychopath.

John the Baptist.

Well, _shit_.

The deputy leaned back on one hip and pushed his sunglasses up to his eyes with a free index finger. 

"Well, well. Mr. Duncan," he started, with a heaping ounce of nonchalance that sure as Hell was not genuine. "What's a fine gentleman like you doing out here, harassing this here good lady for?"

John Duncan seized up, from the tips of his too-expensive shoes to the top of his groomed hair. His accompanying three Peggies turned to look amongst themselves, then at him, confused. Mrs. Archard raised a severe eyebrow at them all, quietened, even complementing. 

What to do, what to do. What to do when you find out that your childhood best friend is a lunatic cult leader. One of three, no less.

What to do when he's backed up with - the deputy glances at them, casual like - three men all armed with rifles, carrying sidearms. Looking for trouble and, very likely, finding it.

What to do? JCVD does the only thing he can do. He triple-presses the trigger on his radio on the pretence of clipping it from his shirt to his belt, silently requesting immediate backup. That done, he stands there, he waits.  
  
And he takes another bite out of his candy bar.

  
  


## ★ ★ ★ ★ ★


End file.
